


Nightmares

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, chapter 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 02:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: John’s heart was racing, beating real hard like it was climbing up his throat. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t get enough air in. But looking around, he found himself in his tent.





	1. Troubled

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, no one can tell me that John Marston wasn’t at all affected by nearly being eaten by wolves. I’ve seen people say that the origin story of his scars is boring and pathetic. Everyone in game and out is so hard on him for it and I personally don’t think it’s fair. I think it’s important to acknowledge that he might not have been only hurt physically by what happened to him. 
> 
> It’s okay to seek help if you’re hurting. 
> 
> Graphic Depictions of Violence tag added just in case. It’s a brief description of John’s dreams.

John came to with a bark of surprise, instinctually reaching for his gun. But he found no gun belt around his hips, only the empty waistband of his trousers under the blankets. He fought the urge to call out for help. 

The urge to call out for Arthur. 

His heart was racing, beating real hard like it was climbing up his throat. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t get enough air in. But looking around, he found himself in his tent. 

Dropping back down into his cot, he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. _Horseshoe Overlook. I’m in camp. I’m in camp. Arthur..._

A moment beforehand, he’d been back up in Colter. Freezing. It had been so vivid, like it was actually happening to him again. Dutch had sent him out alone to scout in a damn blizzard. He’d taken cover in the night, practically sitting in the pitiful fire that he’d managed to build. Freezing. Scared. Alone. 

And then he’d heard the wolves. Howling. Baying. Growling as they closed in on him. He hadn’t known that he’d been riding into wolf territory. He’d barely known which way was up in all of that snow. There were no signs, all covered up in blinding white. He’d bolted, jumping on the terrified horse he’d stolen back in Blackwater. She had only carried him so far before she’d been dragged to ground, screaming.

God, John could still hear it. 

This was the fourth time in a row that he’d dreamt of Colter. Now that he was getting better, he was having less gaps in his memories. He was able to remember his dreams. His nightmares. They weren’t pleasant.

He stared at the arch in the canvas, gripping the blanket in his fists, reminding himself where he was. He strained to hear Miss Grimshaw scolding Karen for some shoddy stitchwork or something along those lines. Swallowing hard, he licked his dry, cracked lips. Blearily, he reached for his watch. The glass face was broken but the thing still ticked. 

Just before 8 o’clock. 

Closing the timepiece, he made himself sit up. His head didn’t spin nearly as much as it had when he’d gotten up yesterday. Mobility was slowly coming back to him. With the help of Abigail and the others, he’d been able to move a bit around camp the past few days. But he’d eventually lose his wind and they’d put him back to bed.

He was tired of it. He was a burden and he knew it. The others weren’t saying so, not yet at least. But he figured that they were all thinking it. 

Poor Johnny Marston, dumb as a bag of rocks and ugly as one too. He was too busy trying not to think about the weight of an angry wolf on top of him, cavernous jaws open wide, lunging for his throat. 

Shaking his head, he leaned over and dragged his satchel over to the cot. First he dug out the whiskey bottle he kept and took a long swig. It made things feel a little number. It was easy to understand clouds in his brain if they were from drink. 

Next, he fished out the little square mirror glass he kept wrapped up in a little scrap of cloth. Dutch had given it to him when he was a kid. It was good for signaling on a sunny day and for a quick shave if you were in a pinch.

John hesitated for a long moment before he finally unwrapped it in his lap. Tilting the little square of glass, he found himself. He stared at the flap of cloth obscuring the right side of his face before reaching up to slip the loop of bandages off of his head. Some threads caught on some of the dried up poultice along his stitches. He winced at the sting. 

Glancing over, he picked up his canteen and dumped some water on the bandages. Very carefully, he dabbed at his cheek to clean off the dry poultice. The gashes didn’t look real inflamed. The stitches stuck out noticeably as his skin slowly healed, knitting itself back together. He stared silently, and gingerly ran his fingertips along the gashes.

He could tell himself that he never had been much to look at beforehand anyways. It wasn’t like folks really looked him in the face anyways. In his line of work, people mostly looked down the barrel of his gun. He could joke, endure the ribbing when it was happening. He’d been real lucky he’d gotten his elbow up in time before that wolf could close its jaws around his throat. 

But he was marred. 

He took another pull of whiskey, and hid his eyes in his palm. His stomach clenched painfully against the burn. Hot tears burned under his eyelids as he fought off the image of the stolen mare, fallen on top of his leg. Covered in wolves. Kicking and wailing as she was viciously ripped apart.

Covering his mouth, he dry heaved. He’d been in pretty bad scrapes before. He’d seen humans beings do terrible things to one another. He’d seen animals killed. He’d seen horses shot up in robberies. He didn’t understand why this affected him so. 

It took another few minutes, but John managed to pull himself together. His stomach was groaning with hunger. With the whiskey already in him, he needed food before he really started feeling low. It would be the first time he left the tent on his own. 

Gritting his teeth, he eased himself up to his feet. His right leg twinged, but held. He thought the clouds in his head abated some when he took another long swallow of whiskey. He picked his gun belt up off of the edge of the cot and buckled it on around his hips. Feeling a little more imposing, he lifted the flap of his tent and limped out into the morning light. 

He looked towards Arthur’s tent, set up under just to the left. The cot was empty and there was no sign of the blond. John glanced around camp. Folks were just starting to stir. He didn’t appear to be in camp either. He looked towards the horses but realized that he wasn’t sure what Arthur was riding these days. 

“He ain’t here,” 

John looked over at Abigail as she approached, holding her morning coffee close to her chest. She had a second tin mug, which she held out to him. Taking it, mindful of the hot tin, he blew on the surface of the dark liquid. 

He thought about playing coy, but Abigail wouldn’t tolerate something like that. Especially before she’d had her coffee. _He’s avoiding me,_ he thought. “Ain’t seen him in over a week,” he rasped quietly so no one would hear, sipping at the coffee. He could tell that she’d made it. It was always a little too strong when Pearson brewed it. For some reason, she made it perfectly.

“He’s been comin’ in late and leavin’ early,” Abigail said, studying his face. “Your scratches are lookin’ better. How do ya feel?” 

“Still don’t feel quite right. Have you seen him?” John murmured, shaking his head. 

“He left with Hosea a little while ago. Said something about hunting a bear.” 

John considered that. Hosea used to talk about hunting rare game. He must have gotten wind of something real big if he was asking Arthur along. 

Abigail sniffed, “You already been drinkin’?” 

“Don’t start,” John grumbled, finally looking her in the eye, “I’m askin’ ya, Abigail. Please.” The woman crossed an arm over her middle, casting a cool gaze up at him. Whatever she saw gave her pause. The harsh arch to her brow softened, “You had a nightmare again.” 

It wasn’t a question.

“I thought I heard you shout.” 

John stayed quiet, casting his gaze back down to the ground. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, grimacing in pain. Abigail took a step closer to speak quieter lest any ears overhear. “Up in Colter. When you were real delirious? When you were calling out for,”

John ran his fingers along the edge of the tin mug. “Abigail, just...just leave it,” he murmured before he limped off towards the maple tree near the left edge of the overlook. Abigail didn’t follow after him. He counted himself lucky. He must have looked just pathetic enough. 

He leaned against the tree, felt the bark scrape over the arm of his coat. The steam rolled off of the coffee, curling through the air like smoke and snow.

_“Help!”_

Shaking his head hard, John rubbed at his eyes. He took a steadying breath and looked out. The mist of the cool morning was fading, giving way to sunshine. He bit his lip, feeling his stomach turn. The river was just barely visible through the trees down there. He tried to focus on it, to dismiss the sounds rattling around in his brain. 

_“Arthur! Help me!”_


	2. Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail’s critical blue-grey eyes looked him up and down. Took in how heavily he was leaning on his horse. How fatigued, or hazy with drink he looked. How he clenched his bleeding thumb inside of his fist.
> 
> “You look like shit,” she said. John couldn’t help it, he barked out a laugh. 
> 
> Abigail raised an eyebrow and turned her body towards camp. “We just finished the washing and there’s some hot water left. Come on, I brought it to your tent.”
> 
> And then she was walking away. Away towards John’s tent. No chance to speak. No room for argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you can’t confront what is hurting you, especially in a time where there was no common language to describe what that hurt was, it is natural to distract yourself. 
> 
> I am still living in Chapter 3 and have managed *somehow* to avoid spoilers. 
> 
> Happy reading, and happy gaming!

Smoke trailed from the end of John’s cigarette. It dispersed in the soft breeze that eased through camp. He sat quietly at Pearson’s wagon, peeling the last of the potatoes for his stew. 

“I hope Arthur and Hosea manage that bear. Now that would be some good eatin’!” The former Navyman exclaimed, carefully dividing up his last leg of venison nearby.

John kept it to himself that he found bear meat to be tough and bland. He didn’t want to offend the man that was currently keeping his senses dull with whiskey. His own bottle had run dry earlier in the afternoon. Peeling and dicing vegetables was a small price to pay, and it needed doing anyways. 

He needed to be useful. 

“I remember this one time back when I was in the Navy — !”

“Oh good God,” John muttered to himself, tapping the ashes off the end of his cigarette. He slid Pearson’s whiskey towards him, took a hearty swig, and replaced the smoke.

The camp’s cook blathered on as John peeled and diced. He mostly ignored him, nodding here and there when it was expected of him. As a kid, he’d been in trouble enough to spend decent portions of his days stuck on kitchen duty. Just the smell of raw carrots and potatoes made him feel the bitterness of a scolded child. 

The sound of hoofbeats came trotting up the trail. John eagerly picked up his head as a spotted appaloosa came into view. 

It was Charles on Taima. 

John resettled, sucking hard on his cigarette. He brushed a hand back through his hair and checked his watch. It was half past six o’clock. Pensively, John stroked the pad of his thumb over the crack in the face of the timepiece. He felt it catch a little, but not enough to bite. 

It would be getting dark in a couple of hours. He closed the damaged watch, and tucked it back into his pocket. 

Charles strode over with a quiet ease that bothered John right then. Bothered him in a way of jealousy. Everyone tip-toed respectfully around Charles. Arthur did so the most, John believed. Was it his long, inky black hair? The depth and surety of his voice? The quiet way he just seemed to understand the things around him? The colour of his skin? The sobering oppression of his people?

He held a cloth bag in his hand and had a turkey slung over one shoulder as he approached Pearson. “When I was out hunting, I found some wild onions and some good mushrooms. Thought they might be good for your stew.”

Pearson, already tinged red with drink and his usual complexion, grew redder as he grinned, “Good find, Charles!”

John blew smoke out the unoccupied side of his mouth, biting back a scoff of annoyance. He knew it was rooted in his jealousy. Charles was a better man than him, and currently a lot more able-bodied. 

_If I were myself, I could probably kick his ass,_ John mused to himself, tossing the handful of raw potato into the pot of water Pearson had set on the table in front of him. _Maybe get kicked out of the gang if I tried…_ John somberly told himself, knowing that Charles was also a better-liked man than he.

John had left. For a year. He’d betrayed the trust of the gang once. He wondered sometimes if they were just waiting for him to up and leave again. He wondered if they wanted him to.

“Just give’em a quick wash and hand’em to John there. He’ll cut’em up and we can get supper over the fire.” Pearson nodded, still grinning. Charles went around behind the wagon and used some of the water from the bucket to properly clean his finds.

John was pointedly trying to ignore him, even as he finished washing and came over to the table. 

“Hey.”

“Mm.”

“You’re looking better.”

John meant to keep it in but he couldn’t help but scoff aloud, “That’s what everyone keeps sayin’.” 

Everyone _did_ keep saying it. Was it the only thing they could say to him? He didn’t think he could look much better than he did. Not with his face like this. But maybe they were just hinting that he should be doing more work instead of just limping around camp doing menial chores and drinking whiskey. 

He sucked the last out of the cigarette and then crushed it under his boot. Sighing out smoke, he held a hand out for the vibrant, green onions and the pale mushrooms.

Charles didn’t frown. He kind of always had a crease about him even if it didn’t affect his face. Like he was figuring thing out, and finding the truth in all the bullshit around him. John knew it was a useful skill to have in the gang, but he was still perturbed.

“Want some help?”

“I can do it.” John grunted, making a grasping motion, still waiting for the stupid fucking onions and mushrooms. Charles handed them over with a nod. He glanced at the turkey he’d brought back, “Guess I’ll go pluck and dress this.”

“Much obliged, Charles,” Pearson said. 

_Goddamnit…_

“Fine job, John, fine job.” Pearson said, suddenly beside John, looking into the pot. He picked the heavy thing up and carefully walked it over to his little firepit where the venison was already cooking away. 

“No problem,” John rasped, putting down the knife. “What do you want me to do with these?” He asked, gesturing at the table. Pearson was carefully adding another block of wood to his fire. “Can you bring’em over? I’d like to toss’em in with the venison before I go pouring the water in.” John pushed himself up, and brought the foraged vegetables over to the cook. He swept them off of the little board and in amongst the sizzling venison. “I think this’ll be pretty good. Thanks for the help, John.” 

He needed to be useful. He felt so useless.

He lit another cigarette, and rubbed at his sore leg. 

“M...Mister…?”

John paused, and turned to glared over his shoulder at the O’Driscoll tied to a tree behind Pearson’s wagon. When he’d found out that they were keeping one Colm’s boys in their camp, John thought to pitch a fit. If Dutch had wanted information, John was confident he could’ve beat it out of the young, scraggly son of a bitch. 

_“We don’t need to tire ourselves out on the O’Driscoll. He’ll tell us what we wanna know when he gets hungry enough.”_

And Dutch’s word was final. 

That didn’t mean John couldn’t smoke like a seething chimney, and eye the prisoner like he was thinking about thrashing him. He was thinking about thrashing him after all. The O’Driscoll had been tied to that tree for days now. Maybe a week. Maybe a little longer. However long they’d been here. John had lost track.

He looked weary, disheveled, and afraid. 

_Good._

Cloudy grey eyes met his, and the boy licked his dry, cracked lips. “Please Mister...could I please have some water…please?”

John sniffed and glanced around his own feet. Then he crouched down, and found a small stone. Stood back up. And threw it at the O’Driscoll who flinched. 

He let out a scared little whimper when it thumped off the side of his head. 

“Shut up.” John growled and limped away.

Pearson chuckled behind him, “I ‘spose it’s been a couple’a days. Can’t have you dyin’ on us yet.” 

“Thank you,” came the weary reply. 

John limped over to where the horses were grazing near the trail. He gave a low whistle, and his horse Old Boy picked up his curved face. His ears flicked towards John as he approached and nickered in greeting. 

John leaned unsteadily against the war horse to rest his leg, and stroked the beast’s neck. Old Boy whinnied and pawed at the ground but held firm against the weight. Large eyes studied his rider, and the inquisitive nostrils came around to snuff at his face. He was good like that. 

John shushed him. He hadn’t ridden him since Blackwater. The horse had to be feeling restless, not having left camp since arriving at Horseshoe Overlook. 

John scratched at Old Boy’s flank, and murmured, “Maybe tomorrow we’ll go out hunting. I’m going stir crazy here listenin’ to people tell me how much ‘better’ I look.” He rubbed gently at his leg and bit at the inside of his lip to fight off the image that came unbidden into his head.

And image of teeth tearing furiously at his leg, already bloody from getting shot back in Blackwater. 

Old Boy nickered lowly, sensing John’s distress. He patted his horse’s neck reassuringly despite wanting to vomit, “S’okay, shh.” With a heavy sigh, he slid his watch from his pocket to check the time. 

Nearly seven o’clock. The sun would go down in an hour or so. 

Absently, John stroked his thumb over the crack in the face. And for the first time, it bit. With a soft hiss, he watched a small drop of blood bloom. The cut was tiny, but it stung. Sticking the digit in his mouth, he tucked the resilient timepiece away again. 

As insignificant as it was, the sting did distract him some from the ache in his leg, forearm and face. 

He scoffed and watched as more blood gathered on the pad of his thumb. “‘You look better,’” he muttered, “Horseshit.”

The old leaves gathered on the edge of the forest floor were disturbed. A small twig snapped under the calm, and careful footfalls. Someone was coming up behind him from camp. He prepared himself for Dutch waxing philosophy. For Pearson’s Navy days stories. For the Reverend to drunkenly harumph about God and the nature of men. For Karen to complain about Miss Grimshaw. For Miss Grimshaw to complain about the shoddy work of folks in the camp. 

He prepared himself to at least pretend he was listening and not wondering about when Arthur would be getting back. He prepared himself not to think of blood spilled in blinding snow. He prepared himself to be told that he “looked better.” 

“John?” 

He looked over his shoulder and found Abigail. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of her open coat, and her dark hair was done up higher than it normally was. There were some wet spots on her soft brown blouse, and her skirts.

Her critical blue-grey eyes looked him up and down. Took in how heavily he was leaning on his horse. How fatigued, or hazy with drink he looked. How he clenched his bleeding thumb inside of his fist.

“You look like shit,” she said. 

John couldn’t help it, he barked out a laugh. 

Abigail raised an eyebrow and turned her body towards camp. “We just finished the washing and there’s some hot water left. Come on, I brought it to your tent.”

And then she was walking away. Away towards John’s tent. No chance to speak. No room for argument. 

There was seldom any opportunity for argument when the women in camp decided that the men needed to wash themselves. Miss Grimshaw was the toughest of those enforcers. 

He knew he could do with it. 

John gave Old Boy one last stroke and followed obediently after Abigail. She waited at the entrance to his tent. When he caught up, she took a bar of soap out of her pocket and held it towards him. 

He looked her in the eye. There was a gentle sternness there. But for some reason, there was a little give. A softness. 

This morning she had indicated that his scratches looked better. She didn’t put the mantle of health upon him. She asked after him. She was the only one who was bothering to see him right then. Really see him. She said he looked like shit. 

She was honest. 

He took the soap and stepped into his tent. A clean pair of his trousers, long pants and his red shirt were sitting folded on the cot. Some washed cloth bandages sat on top. There was a tin basin set on the crate. Some steam came off of the water inside. The tent flap came down behind him. 

Abigail had come inside and shut out the rest of camp. 

He looked at her questioningly when she came forward, shrugging off her coat. She reached out and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. “You’ve been checking the time all day long.”

“Abigail…”

She hushed him softly, slipping his braces off of his shoulders. He let her. Let her take off his gun belt. Let her undress him. Let her be as she cleaned his wounds, washed his skin and sat him down on the stool to wash his hair. Her touch was so gentle. 

She was right. He spent all day waiting, jumping every time he thought he heard horses coming up the trail. 

The hot water sluiced down his shoulders as she rinsed him off. Rinsed his hair even after all traces of soap were gone. She even slid a comb through the wet locks, carefully undoing any tangles. 

She’d...never done this for him before. There was a methodical way that she moved, suggesting that she’d done this for grown men before. Probably back when she was a prostitute. But there was also a mindfulness to her touches, and the way she moved him. 

Theirs was a complicated relationship. It was plain to any who saw them. Their arguments, the way they moved around one another sometimes, how little they spoke most times. But there certainly was something like a bit of love between them. 

She ran a dry cloth over him, collecting water droplets. Catching the steam that curled off of his hot, clean skin. He shivered.

Like their lives on the run, it wasn’t exactly a civilized sort of love. How could it be? For one thing, he loved a man too.

He’d bathed like this once with Arthur. After a particularly difficult job that had the law on the alert, the men had split up, agreeing to meet back at camp in two days time. 

That night, they’d drank together, feeling easy after coming away with a good amount of money. They’d drunkenly bathed in a nearby stream, splashing one another. Wrestling one another. Washing one another. Kissing one another. Touching one another...

_Arthur..._

Abigail’s hands came to settle on his face. He jerked, instinctively tilting his head away as she touched the wounds on his face. Her hands instead settled on his shoulders. John took an unsteady breath. He hadn’t realize that he’d been silently crying. Opening his eyes, he looked solemnly up into hers. She stared back. 

And then leaned down to kiss him. 

He let her. Pulled her closer. Kissed her back. Deeper. Harder. He undid her belt, and the buttons on her overblouse. 

She let him. Let him slip off her underblouse to mouth at the warm, smooth skin under her breasts. To kiss her sternum, to nip at her ticklish waist, to dip his tongue into her navel. 

Abigail sighed, untying her skirts and underthings to let them fall to the ground. John sat her on the edge of the cot and knelt down in front of her. His thigh twinged. He ignored it.

He trailed kisses down the inside of her legs while he pulled off her shoes and stockings. He leaned close, cupping her hips in his long-fingered hands. Her fingers slid through his damp hair as he licked at her. 

She gasped when he sucked gently. His tongue slid over her entrance, and rubbed back and forth over her clit. She’d taught him this. For all people said about John’s intelligence, he was eager to learn.

Abigail maintained her composure, kept quiet, even as he slid his fingers inside of her. Searching upwards, caressing her as his mouth buried itself in between her folds. He drew her closer, nearly pulling her off balance. Bracing a hand behind herself, she stroked her nails over John’s scalp. A shiver went up his strong back, and he groaned against her. 

She let it go on as long as she felt she could. Trying to decide how this would end. 

“Come here,” she finally breathed, scooting back away from his overwhelming mouth. 

He followed her up onto the cot, settling between her legs as they raised up around his hips. For a moment, the two lost themselves in kisses. His stubble burned against her chin. Her lips were so soft against his. Her tongue slid over his, fighting and guiding. She tightened her grip on his hair and pulled his head back.

A ragged groan escaped him. She nipped and sucked at his exposed throat. One hand slid down between them to finally wrap around his prick.

He was aroused. Quivering. Leaking. Not overly long in any way, but certainly thick. Thick enough to make her feel winded when she guided it into her. She rubbed at her clit as he slid his cock inside. Full. Surrounded. Unsteady. They moaned in the false solitude, shrill and breathless. 

The camp was still outside. Voices were beginning to gather as Pearson called distantly, “Stew’s on! Who’s hungry?”

Abigail squeezed John around the waist, encouraging him to move quicker. So he did. His hips rocking back and forth, the sounds of it stifled inside of the canvas tent. He shuddered at the wet heat of her. His thigh ached. Still, he ignored it. 

She pressed her lips together, looping her arms up about John’s shoulders. His muscles trembled with his thrusting. Together, they muffled their cries against one another’s shoulders. It seemed like minutes. But also like forever. 

He drove into her a little harder, a little quicker. She rubbed frantically at herself as he mouthed at her neck, just under the edge of her jaw. He groaned into her ear, his thrusts losing their rhythm. Rapidly, the two of them would be unhinged. 

He bit down on a listless cry, quickly pulling his cock out of her. He came off, spilling hot ribbons over his fist, over Abigail’s belly as he groaned. She followed after, rubbing herself to climax, her passage clenching longingly on nothingness.

The two panted against each other. Otherwise, they didn’t move.

John’s leg hurt like a son of a bitch. The dizziness of pain tugging at the whiskeyed edges of his brain. Abigail distracted him with another kiss. With graceful tongue and gentle teeth.

He squawked when she ran a finger down his crack. 

John broke the kiss and pulled away to look warily at her. She stared back, her hair in a disarray. Quiet. Defiant. He licked his lips and swallowed, remembering her saying something along the lines of _“get yourself a pot of petroleum.”_ His face was hot, and not only from the exertion. 

She moved her fingers away from his arse and gave his flank a light push. He rolled off of her and onto his side. A hiss of relief escaped him and he placed a hand over his thigh. There was some blood there, exacerbated by the physical strain. But the flesh, torn by teeth and bullet, was healing. It would be a nasty scar. 

At least he could hide this one.

He watched as Abigail washed herself clean of their efforts at the tin basin. She came to John to do the same. 

He tried to reach for the cloth, “I can,” She only hushed him again. Wiped away the spend on his groin, gingerly washed his softening cock. He bit his lip as she handled the oversensitive flesh. She encouraged him up, and carefully dressed his wounds with the clean bandages. 

When she was done, she began replacing her clothing. “Come out and eat with us?” She didn’t look at him as she said this. He looked at her profile as she attempted to comb her hair into some semblance of control. He rarely saw her hair down. 

He swallowed and quietly reached for his long pants. 

Once they were both presentable, she finally looked at him again. She turned the one of the straps of his braces so it was no longer twisted. And she looked him in the eye. When she reached to touch the marred side of his face, he gently caught her hand before she could. 

After a long moment of brown eyes staring into blue, she gave his fingers a squeeze. Then she leaned down to pick up the tin basin. John pushed aside the flap of canvas and tossed it over the outside wall to be sure her exit was not interrupted. 

Folks were already sitting, digging into the stew. Around the fire, around a table. Some looked over when Abigail left John’s tent to take care of the basin. Their eyes settled on him. Some smirked and whispered to each other.

John looked away, and limped over to Pearson’s wagon. After finding a stray flat bowl and a bent spoon, he served himself. It certainly smelled good. He glanced at the O’Driscoll, tied up against his tree. The boy was very pointedly not looking at him in the increasing darkness. It seemed he’d learned to keep his mouth shut when John was near.

_Good._

“Marston! Have a seat, my boy!” Uncle caroused, gesturing at the vacant spot on the log beside Bill at the fire. Javier, Strauss and Pearson were seated around the fire too, chatting as they ate.

Unable to hide now, John joined them. As soon as he sat down, Bill nudged him and snickered knowingly. John looked into the fire as he ate, listening only a little when the others spoke. 

Sometimes they’d make jokes and innuendos, laugh and glance at John. He endured it. He was used to the ribbing. Tonight it just happened to be about his sex life. 

He glanced over his shoulder where the women had decided to gather to eat. They spoke quietly, laughing occasionally. He caught Abigail’s eye as she vigilantly watched Jack slowly eat his stew. The boy made a show of not really liking venison, but it was what they had and he had to eat. 

She looked back at him and gave him a small nod. Karen and Mary Beth saw the exchange and giggled, giving Abigail a friendly push. She looked away from John and with a glint of amusement in her eye, pushed them back. 

When John looked back to the fire, Uncle was smiling warmly. He held his bottle to John, who took it gratefully. The whiskey burned its way down his throat. He handed it back to Uncle, hoping that the old man would keep sharing. 

The more addled he was when he finally went to bed, the less likely he was to dream. The less likely he was to see so vividly a mouths full of teeth. Jaws open wide enough to swallow a man whole. See them, feel it, scoring his face, closing around his forearm, ripping at his leg. Taunting him. Chasing him. Alone.

“Glad to see you’re looking better, John.” The old man said. There was agreement around the fire. Bill chuckled, “He’s obviously _feeling_ better.” Then there was muffled laughter. John frowned, but kept quiet, shoveling hot potatoes into his mouth.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket and drew out his watch. Ticking closer and closer to nine o’clock. And darkness had fallen. He felt the crack in the face tug at the tiny cut on the pad of his thumb. 

_He ain’t comin’ home tonight..._

Quickly, he closed the timepiece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos or comments! It is always lovely to hear from you!
> 
> Please keep spoilers out of the comments section so we can all enjoy this game at our own pace.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and/or kudos! Love to hear from you!


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